Managing Marco
by Nicholas de Vilance
Summary: /Deuces Wild/ Spun off of a "what if" I found...Say...Marco didn't die didn't get that concussion from the LEAD PIPE TO THE FACE , and say he was lying there all night because his buddies just left him for dead. He was lucky he grabbed that skirt
1. Prologue: You're not Dead

Nicholas: NEEDED to get this out! NEEDED IT!! Just ask Becki how much I needed to. Anyway, this is the prologue. If you read my Lj (which you probably don't) You'd know the story behind this...story. I started it two years ago (when my writing was worse shit than it is now) and recently I got a butt load of good ideas for it, so I decided to pick it up again. I rewrote this part because the original was both written on notebook paper and really horrible writing. Then I sort of took off. The title took a lot of consideration, but in the end, I got what I wanted (courtesy of Becki, of course). So here his my most recent brain child. Love it! Because I do... And guess what? It's straight! Haha, it's been a while, hasn't it?

Disclaimer: Is there a magic spell that disclaims? "This story is hereby DISCLAIMED!!" Not mine, and I don't say it is.

Rating: T...for now...cursing...asshole-ism...some testy violence...later it will go up for MORE violence and SEX!! yay for sex.

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Angela Farrell deeply regretted having such idiot friends. Sure it was better than having no friends at all, but as she walked along down by the docks on her way home, she couldn't help but let her blood boil. _Those pricks!_ she screamed inside her head. She furiously adjusted her long, black, skintight skirt that Jonathan had hiked up her legs at that damned club. That was the last time—and she promised herself this—the _last_ time she would ever stay out past ten with potential alcoholics. Her usually very pretty, silky, brown hair—which has been done up all nice in pins at the beginning of the night—was now down, frizzed and all of her natural curls tangled. She had to remember: she'd be home soon. That's what kept her sane and walking. Her bare feet (because there was no way she'd walk in the heels she'd originally worn) ached, but she remembered: she'd be home soon.

Something that Rick had said before she'd left was ringing in her head for some reason. "'Careful out there, sweetcakes. Don't get caught up with them Deuces." She remembered flipping him off, but until now she hadn't taken into consideration what he meant by the warning. Sure, she wasn't with the Deuces (dating Philly Bates' cousin, Archie, was enough proof of that), but since she'd become single again, she didn't really consider herself a Viper girl. She'd found it all too silly and dangerous to stick with a relationship that involved that shit. Too many rumbles and fights and stupid meaningless bouts of violence. Oh that's right.

It wasn't until after she'd come across the aftermath that she remembered Jimmy Pockets had told her about the rumble tonight. By the looks of it, things didn't go too well. There she stood on the edge of the carnage, the terrors and bullshit of Brooklyn laid out before her eyes, and she couldn't move. Suddenly, she just couldn't make her feet go and the rest of her body felt like it was falling. Four—no five—dead bodies were scattered across the pavement, and countless more bloody imprints where the wounded had been. If not for the dark (it was after midnight by now) and the way it played tricks on her eyes, she wouldn't have been so utterly terrified. She'd been in an orphanage for most of her life before the entire house was slaughtered by an unknown perpetrator, leaving only her alive because she'd thought to hide in a box in the pantry.

A nauseous, nagging, gnawing feeling flared in Angela's gut as she looked at all of this. Fallen weapons, articles of clothing that may have been lost in the heat of battle, everything was left so haphazardly, it almost seemed like the people who had left—no doubt hours ago—were still lingering around somewhere waiting for her to leave so that they could continue.

Taking a deep breath, she gathered herself enough to look past the bodies at the street beyond, the one she needed to take to get home. There was only a moment that she took in indecision as she wanted to make sure she wasn't up for traveling around all of this gore—the _long_ way around. She wasn't. She wanted nothing more than to get home and if that meant stepping over five—or wait, six—corpses, so be it. She'd seen worse and she wasn't afraid of the dead, so she continued on her set course, the chill air the only cause of the goose bumps on her bare arms. _Ewww_ crossed her mind a few times, though.

She was halfway across the graveyard, jumping over, skipping over and all over avoiding the semi-wet puddles of that telltale dark, red liquid that should probably have been in some shmuck's body instead of giving the dock a new coat of paint, when she suddenly wondered if one of these guys might not be dead. She wasn't quite sure what had triggered the feeling other than she thought something moved. Any other young woman her age would have registered that as something like a zombie or worth screaming about. Forgive Angela for not squealing at signs of life. Still, she wasn't stupid enough 

to think that maybe this was a good thing. She stopped again and looked around, assessing this once more from a different standpoint. It wasn't any different. She went on walking. Or…tried to, but then something snagged her shirt and blast it if she didn't let out a sharp, quick, high-pitched scream.

Her face turned red in an instant at her own ridiculousness—thinking immediately that it couldn't be a person that had grabbed her—but then she turned around and saw a large, bloody hand locked in a tight grip on the stretchy fabric her shirt was made from. Red went white as a sheet and she couldn't even scream that time. _Deep breaths, deep breaths_, she told herself. Though the trauma from the orphanage when she was younger had given her a bit of immunity to seeing dead people in mass numbers, seeing one come back to life was another story entirely. The hand was attached by a wrist to an arm, and the arm to a body. Of course, everybody that has the intelligence to move has a head to go with it and this head also had a face. It was hard to tell if his was contorted in pain out how bad he felt right now, or just really fucked up from being hit too many times. Either way the image of it made her wince.

"My god," she muttered, pulling her skirt away and squatting down beside him to get a better look, "you're alive." His hand, once it lost its former occupation, started to move around his head, seeming like he didn't know what to do with it. Angie couldn't make heads or tails of his face besides the cut up, bloody lips of his mouth and his swollen eye. "Can you say something? Tell me your name?"

The stained, dirty appendage that on a better day probably more resemble a hand finally reached his own face about the same took his lungs decided to push a hurt groan out of his chest. Fingers snaked over his wounds for a second—gashed forehead, broken nose, punctured lips—before his good eye opened. "I…" All he could smell was dirt and blood and his scratchy throat made it hard to talk. His chest erupted beneath the crusty, brown dress shirt he wore in a coughing fit and he spat out just a bit more of that wonderful red stuff on the ground beside him. "Who the…th'fuck're you?"

Slightly taken aback—but only slightly—Angie came to the conclusion that he was a Viper because of his wonderfully polite manner of speaking to a lady. "If you want me to help you, you better clean up your language."


	2. Chapter 1: Whether He Wants it or Not

Nicholas: I suppose this officially makes this a chapter fic...Once it's done, it ought to be shorter than my others were and will be. Marco is a bastard, by the way. A heartless, unrelenting jerk, so I guess the purpose of this story is making him turn around. Angie ought to teach him a lesson or to.

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He'd lost consciousness once more at some point between she whoever-she-was had tried to pull him up or get him to his feet or just drag him along and when she slammed the door to what must have been her apartment. _Smart girl for taking in stray gangsters_, he thought sardonically. It wasn't the only thing on his mind, just the first thing he thought of. He felt like his leg had been ripped off and his chest was caving in so he was glad that she'd just resorted to pulling him after her by his shoulders instead of trying to make him walk, being that she apparently just _had_ to do something anyway. The door slamming was what woke him, it hurt his ears too so he undoubtedly flinched. The instinct his body wanted to follow was get the fuck out of there, but it proved more than difficult with a head ache like the one he had. Instead, so save her having to drag him anymore—the motion was wreaking havoc on his ass anyway—he started to pull himself up. _So stupid_, his mind snapped, _You're a failure and a loser. Couldn't even kill that rat fuck Leon after all that confidence you had._ It was embarrassing that the moment he stood, he fell back again, though she did managed to get a chair under him.

A light flicked on, and he closed his eyes, hoping that his head ache wouldn't worsen, but it did anyway. He deserved the pain though. In fact, he deserved to be six feet under right now. He'd fucked up—Leon would have been dead (should have been dead) if…if what? It didn't really matter right now.

"I'm not going to bother you about the fight…" That lady was talking again with that feminine quality of voice that struck him as odd. Strangely, he found that the tone—different from the rough men's voices he was used to hanging around with—soothed his pounding head a bit. "...but will you at least tell me your name?"

Just when he opened his eyes to look at her, all he got was a damp rag coming at him and pressing against the cut on his head. It stung like hell. "Fuck! That hurts!" Immediately, he tried to push it away, get the sting off, make it stop burning.

"You want to get an infection?" He just glared at her. "I've never met anyone named 'fuck' before. You're mother name you that or your father?"

She tried again, like she was determined to torture him or piss him off, but he stubbornly swatted her hand away. With a sigh, she tried yet again; he grabbed the towel and yanked on it to take it away. "Stop acting like a baby!" she snapped, determined to take care of the bloody mess that he was whether he liked it or not. She tugged it back with more force than most women he's known openly displayed and then threw it in his face.

Letting out an excruciating holler and flinching violently to get that stupid thing as far away from him as possible, he made his chair screech back a few inches. He lifted his hands to his face to gently ease the sting of rubbing alcohol off his skin. "What the hell are you trying to do to me, Jesus! Lay off for a second, will you?" The cold glare he gave didn't faze her in the least. "Who _are_ you?"

"My name is Angie," she said stiffly, returning his leer with her own fiery one. "And you?"

"Marco."

A trigger clicked in her mind—probably making a loud snapping noise, she was sure of it—and she barely contained her gasp. "Marco Vindetti." Wasn't that just wonderful? Of all the lowlife mobsters she just _had_ to offer help to, this happens to be Marco the Malignant. She'd never actually seen him before, but she'd heard a lot from Archie when they were going out (the short time that they dated). Then there was the other rumor she'd come by. "You're the guy who killed Leon's brother…"

In a strained movement, he sat straight up, his entire body tense and ready to run if need be. Both of them stared each other down in the tense silence that followed, Angie clenching her fists and Marco narrowing his eyes. "Yeah? Where'd you hear that?" He was in no state to run anywhere, and they both knew that—he probably wouldn't make it to the door.

"Never mind, it doesn't matter. Just explains why you're being so difficult." Angela snatched up the cloth and held it casually. "I mean, heck, you're Marco Vindetti. You get everything handed to you. Never had anyone tell you what to do, have you? Now let me clean that crusty crap off your face. The more you piss me off, the more this is going to hurt." She ignored his snarling expression and reached over to wipe at that stubborn blood splotch on his forehead. This time, however, he just flinched and took deep breath. "See, it's not so bad." He growled something quietly on an exhalation. "_What_ was that?"

"Why did you help me?" He repeated harshly, sounding like he was pissed at having to say it again. As cliché as the phrase looks on paper, nothing about the way he said it was in any way so. The tone to his voice—aside from his indignant attitude toward being asked to say things twice—was almost indifferent and close to…a sort of childlike curiosity. "You could've ignored me, like anyone would've told you to. Pulling shit like this—taking some strange guy to your home—that's enough to get you killed."

Folding the towel to use a clean portion, she dabbed at his lip, barely noticing the way his fingers gripped the seat beneath him. "You make it sound like you care," she shot back.

Contempt was the only thing he let show on his façade—I mean aside from the obvious things like bruises—proving that he did not. "Try again."

"You nearly pulled off my skirt. Ignoring you was out of the question." His ear looked like it had almost been cut off, and there was most likely a piece missing. She turned his head to clean it, fingers gentle and even caring—though that was hardly a feeling she directed toward Marco so much as the fact that he was a human being and she had a heart. "Besides, I couldn't leave you out there, no matter who you turned out to be." Looking down, Ange saw his scabbed knuckles crack and start to bleed again. "Did you fight with Leon, then?"

"Yes!" The fire flared in Marco and raged with all the intensity of a gas explosion. His voice was borderline terrifying. "I almost had the mother fucker. I had my knife against his throat, but he just wouldn't die. A half inch lee-way and he would be lying with the rest of those poor bastards out there, and you wouldn't be fucken babying me."

She ignored the fact that he rolled his eyes when she picked up his hand to attend to it as well. In ignoring him, she didn't notice that he also continued to stare at her with something like loathing interest. _Just another pretty face_, he assured himself. And he did admit that she was pretty. From his experience, however, pretty meant bitchy—and he knew already that she was a bitch. Strong-willed, talkative, risk-taking but she was still a bitch. He barely noticed the tingle of that alcohol as he was sizing her up. _Maybe five foot eight…hate tall women. Her breasts don't look that big and she needs an update on what to wear if she wants to stop getting weird looks. And what kinda name is Angie…Probably short for Angela, but that means angel and she definitely ain't no angel._

"Must hurt your pride, me wiping your face, acting like your mother. Just a stab in the balls, right?"

"You're lucky I don't feel like beating the shit out of you."

"Even if you did, you wouldn't get very far," she snapped.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. I'm a big girl, I can handle myself."

"You're right about the 'big' part."

"Just what is that supposed to mean?" The way he just smirked cheekily told her that he was trying to get a rise out of her, so she took a deep breath and decided to ignore it. "Whatever…You can stay here until you're feeling better—" As she paused, her attention was severed down to his jeans and she looked at the long blood stain that ran down his thigh. "And until you can use this leg again." This wasn't an offer or request in the way it came out. "Can" didn't mean he was able to but that he was going to. She was giving a demand—he didn't take too kindly with following orders. "Don't argue. I'm sure there are plenty of families of dead people that will be wanting your head, so just don't argue."

Marco didn't take too kindly to threats either, so he took complete advantage of her preoccupation with examining his leg. As quick as a flash, he wrapped one hand around her wrist and the other gripped at her throat—the thumb putting just enough pressure on her jugular to get his point across. She reacted just as quick, much to his surprise, by reaching out blindly and grabbing the first thing on him that her free hand came in contact with. He winced when she yanked on his hair, but didn't let go. Just tightening his grasp on her arm until blood oozed from his knuckles and seeped between his fingers, he showed her just how pissed he was.

Of course, Angie struggled and squirmed, whining in pain and discomfort—and only a tad bit of fear at that relentless, determined glare Marco put her under. "Yeah, good idea, try to kill me," she choked out sarcastically. "Did you get out of jail what a week ago? Real good way to stay out."

A vicious sneer contorted his face. _Who the hell does she think she is?_ Marco wanted so much to just squeeze and squeeze hard, but (and he only begrudgingly admitted this) she was right. The last thing he wanted was to be thrown back in the joint after so short of freedom. He pushed his thumb a bit harder into her soft, little throat making her whine louder. It would have been so easy… With an angry growl, he pushed her back roughly.

Angie ended up falling back on her rump, holding her sore neck and taking deep breaths to make up for the minutes before when she wasn't getting enough. _Stupid man,_ she wanted to say, but she knew better. That wouldn't make this situation any better. Still, she wasn't going to sit by and let him push her around like that in her own house, so she stood before him and smacked him square across the face. Much to her surprise, he let his head fall to the side and didn't look up again. "Don't you dare…" she began, but she didn't go on.

"_What?_ Dare me, I like it!" The look he gave her next was more frightening than the glare he'd used before. He had a startlingly calm, cool tone and face.

"I cant…You're—how are you such a—!?" Clapping a hand over her mouth because this was getting her absolutely nowhere that she needed to be, she forced herself to stop. _Be a better person,_ she urged herself, _Why does God make that so hard!?_ With deep breaths, she calmed herself enough to speak again. "Just shut up and take off your pants?"

"Say again?"

Angie rolled her eyes, knowing that because he was a man, some sexual thought was going through his head at the mention of that "oh so naughty" word pants. Turning on heel—to express her disinterest—she walked around the counter that closed off her kitchen. "I said to take off your pants. There's a cut or something on your leg."

"I ain't wearing boxers."

Stopping on a dime, she paused before commenting. "And by that I assume you mean you aren't wearing briefs either…"

Immediately, a cheeky grin plastered itself across his maw. He hadn't noticed her kitchen before and it struck him as odd—succeeding in severing his tender attention span for a moment. _Wonder where that came from,_ he thought. The room had the bare necessities of a kitchen: a fridge, a stove, cupboard and counter space, and a sink. _Jesus, and it's Periwinkle Blue._ He abhorred that color. Just as that crossed his mind, he remembered the matter at hand.

"Still want to see what I got to offer?" He inquired audaciously.

His snickering just made her lean more heavily on the blue tile counter in the mental agony he was putting her through. He just _had_ to be so difficult with everything! Of course, she really didn't want to see that. For a long time, she has had a great distaste for the male genitalia and he wasn't making that any better for her. "No, I really don't want to see whatever you keep in there, but you still need to lose the Levi's." She reached up into the cabinet above the sink and got down a bottle of Hydrogen Peroxide.

"You do it."

"I-I beg your pardon?" she asked, turning back to look at him with raised eyebrows and pursed lips.

Annoyance laced his features at being asked to repeat himself, but only for a moment. "If they need to come off so badly, you do it."

That brought her just so close to smacking him a good one right then and there, but she really loathed violence so she contented herself with imagining it. Besides, she didn't want to mess up that face she'd just taken so much time to clean. "You've got to be kidding me." By his lithe, little smirk, he wasn't.

He just sat back, rubbing his head as though it hurt—the spot in his hair that she'd clung to when he tried to throttle her—while still grinning snidely. It was a challenge, he was definitely trying to test her, get her to do something stupid like hit him again. Angie went around the counter again, narrowing her gaze every just so to get the point through his skull that she was not amused.

She wasn't going to give in. She set out to help and the fact that he was a heartless bastard who probably didn't deserve it just made her want to spite him and help him anyway. She wanted to show him that no matter what his attitude was about it and no matter what a jerk he was that she was strong enough to take it and dish it back at him. And how…oh how she would. Grabbing a large hand towel from the rack by the stove, she went up to him and reached for his belt. Keeping her eyes on his, she worked the buckle loose without looking, sill holding the towel in her hand. Then that came undone, the button-up fly was next and she did that quickly enough. He hesitated before lifting his hips so she could pull the jeans off.

"Here, cover yourself," she snapped, tossing the towel at him while turning away to fold his pants.

Shaking his head—about to laugh at her ridiculous attitude—he laid the towel over his lap. "How old _are_ you?" Yes, he thought she was childish and immature for avoiding it in that manner.

"Ninety-three," she replied calmly, almost making him believe she was serious for a moment. Then she smirked wryly. "Don't you know it's rude to ask a lady her age?"

"I ain't asking a lady, I'm asking a girl."

A pause gave her time to contain the sour, dark feeling that sank into her gut. _He's not worth it,_ she reminded herself, _He's a tiny, simple man, and he's not worth it._ Taking a deep, strained gulp of air, she kneeled down in front of him to examine that large gash that tore across his thigh. Luckily there wasn't anything like splinter in the wound, because she really didn't want to go picking shit out of his bloody flesh with a pair of tweezers. One of her hands, the one that had rested at the top of the cut, accidentally bumped against that towel and she immediately pulled it back.

"A bit touchy, aren't you?"

And that was it. She stood and glared viciously at him, as though she really had the intent to do some damage—whatever damage she could have done. There was this flicker in her eye that he couldn't really distinguish (was it fear, anger, disgust?) and it did manage to set him off ease. As he watched her pick up that bottle, he knew her exact plan. Marco gripped the seat of his chair and braced himself as she unscrewed the top and poured that burning, fucking liquid onto his already sore, fucking leg. People upstairs probably heard his loud, tortured shout.

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Please Review if you love me!! (You know you do!)


	3. Chapter 2: They're Underwear, Marco

Nicholas: Hm...Been awhile, hasn't it? Well, I'm in a writing frenzy right now, so be happy! I like this chapter, by the by...it's funny.

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Angie did end up talking to her neighbors above her, explaining that she had just had the chaos of hell released in his kitchen and the shout they'd heard was simply Satan being withheld by her own personal exorcist. She was making fun of them because they were Jesus-freaks in the most horrible way. But then things started to calm down and she got Marco settled on the couch with a blanket. His shoes were set by the arm of the sofa while she took his shirt and pants down to the basement—because the Landlord had made it into a free Laundromat—to wash. And then she went to bed. They both were asleep by midnight.

Waking up was very different and a lot less peaceful. The apartment began the wee hours of the morning without a sound. Angie was snoozing away in her library/bed room past the kitchen and Marco stayed sound asleep for quite a while. Though, if they could have competed who got up first they would have for obvious reasons—they both woke at the same time. At first, Marco thought it was a prison bell and it startled him, but when he opened his eyes and remembered where he was, he doubted the possibility. Lifting his head, he looked around for the source of that god awful noise. When it stopped with a ding, he decided that Angela had an alarm clock set to piss him off—no matter how irrational that sounds. He closed his eyes again and tried to get some more sleep that he knew he deserved, but found he couldn't be lulled by the sounds of the morning. Oh well, he'd try anyway.

Maybe an hour passed (give or take) of him lying still, silent as the grave. The window beside him was closed, but it hardly kept quiet the some desperate lark twittering about to tell everyone to get off their rears and go to work. I had never occurred to him before now that birds in general actually inhabited this godforsaken city. Cars were driving by in a regular pattern and some poor little virgin was being talked into giving her first kiss to some shmuck who was about to turn around and tell his buddies as soon as she walked away. Didn't people sleep? No wonder everyone is so uptight in Brooklyn. Weekdays are for working all day and weekends are for partying all night. Fucking nocturnal bush-babies.

He barely heard the door from the bedroom open with a creak before something smacked him in the face—literally. Shooting up to a sitting position, he caught the piece of cloth as it slid from his nose. "What the fuck is this?" he snapped, a sour glare directed at Angie.

"That's underwear, Marco," she replied calmly, fiddling with her ear like she was putting an earring in. "You wear that underneath your clothes."

"I know what underwear is." He lifted the pair of briefs from his lap. "You got to be kidding me." Tidy-whities…she has no idea what comfort is… Marco looked up at her again, eyebrow raised in a way that said he thought she was bat fuck nuts. "Where did you get these, anyway?"

The way she smiled seemed a tad bit wry. "Archie left them when I kicked him out. I found them in a drawer."

"Archie? My cousin Archie?" That's funny, he didn't register this Angela as the one Archie put up with for two months. Maybe that's what Philly Bates had meant by the bitch that had been hanging around lately. Either way, the knowledge of their origin made Marco even more loath to wear them. You see, his dear cousin had his own nickname. "Archie the Drip?"

The wry smile went amused quickly. Angela put in her other earring and walked around the table into the kitchen to get some semblance of a breakfast started with the little that she had to cook with. "Yes, Archie the Drip, Archie Overflow." She was almost to the point of laughing, but that definitely wouldn't be good for Marco's already stubborn attitude. And now that she knew that he was related to Archie, she knew where he got the jack ass temper from. "I didn't know he was your cousin, but anyway that just makes more sense that you should be fine wearing his drawers." Oh how wrong she was.

"I think I'll pass." He tossed them on the floor and snuggled back under the blanket on the couch.

"Oh, and I found this wallet and these cigarettes with a lighter in your jeans pocket. Since I guess you aren't going to be getting off the couch at all being that you won't wear clothes, I'll just pawn them off somewhere." Said items were placed on the counter casually, right where she was sure that Marco could see them without a problem. "What would you like for breakfast? Eggs?"

When he looked up again, saw his belongings lying there, he narrowed his eyes, wishing he could glare a hole into her back like that. Sure, he wasn't above going nude in her apartment, but there was the question of comfort here. What he wanted was his own clothes, but he very much doubted she'd go to his house and get them (and he couldn't anyway because no doubt there'd be police investigating everyone who had been involved in that stupid rumble. He stayed there, arms crossed definitely, totally opposed to wearing his cousins underpants.

"How about this," she started, lighting her stove and putting an old skillet over the flame, "I'll let you walk around in the nude as much as you want if you can stand from the couch without any help." Angela went to her fridge for butter and eggs and ketchup.

Marco was still leering at her, and she didn't even see it—though he was certain she knew and that's why she wasn't looking at him. There was still this nagging, very annoying, tight pain in his thigh from whatever it was that had torn it open. He honestly couldn't remember it happening, so it must have been after he fell unconscious. Would it hold him up? Even if I did, it really wouldn't matter because he knew she wouldn't really let him go nude. Oh well, it was worth a shot. Awkwardly, he turned himself, pulling his bad leg over and off the cushion and placing both feet on her cool, wood floor. He still held the blanket, keeping it from getting tangled on his feet. Carefully, he started to push himself up, but the moment he thought he was balanced the muscle on his thigh contracted painfully and he fell forward.

"God damn it!" Angie hissed, tossing her spatula down and abandoning her frying to go help him. "I didn't mean for you to actually try. I just thought you'd know if you could or not." Her voice was frustrated and at the same time had a hint of concern—the which Marco thought was misplaced.

"Well then you shouldn't have said it like that," he snapped as she helped get him back on the couch. With a groan hid in a laugh: "I knew I'd get you to curse sooner or later."

"Yeah? Well either way…" She picked up the briefs once more and threw them at him. "Put them on."

Put them on wasn't as simple as that. Perhaps if she hadn't told him the origin of the pants, he would have been okay with it, but Archie the Drip got that nickname for a reason. That reason had to do with his little childhood habit of not making it to the bathroom on time. "They clean?" he grumbled, picking them up from his lap once more.

"Let's say, if they smell like piss, they aren't clean. Now, do you like ketchup with your eggs?"

"Oh thanks," he barked indignantly. With a defeated sigh, he watched her hurry back to the kitchen to save her eggs. This morning brought him to a slightly different conclusion about her than he'd come to last night. As he pulled those underwear on—awkwardly forcing them over his hips cause he didn't really have much leverage what with his bad leg—he thought about the last time someone had offered to make breakfast for him. I mean, actually offered and didn't have to be smacked upside the head once or twice. "Sure, ketchup's fine," he muttered.

"Okay." Angela had successfully avoided looking where she didn't want to once more, but when she glanced over, saw him sitting up with just that pair of briefs on, she couldn't help but notice that what she did see wasn't that bad. His form was well toned and no doubt powerful on a good day, and the tattoo that she couldn't quite read right on his left pec didn't help her distraction. "I have to work today," she stated, to keep her mind on other things. _God he's an ass_, she thought. _The fact that he has a good body just makes him seem more arrogan_t. "I'll be gone mostly all day, but I'll try to come back on my lunch break to get you something to eat."

"If I could get up, you wouldn't have to bother with it."

"What's this, trying to make my life easier?"

"Fuck you."

After a very good breakfast on Angie's part (though of course Marco didn't tell her that), she tried to devise a solution for his immobility but that involved him using a chair or something within reach as a walker. Marco positively despised that idea being that he hardly did anything that made him look or feel like he was too weak to do it on his own. The things like that just made him angrier with himself, and Angela had this feeling that he hid enough anger inside of him as it is. She couldn't help worrying for him while she was at work. Not about him, mind you—she found that anything that could possibly go wrong with him today he deserved wholeheartedly—but for him. He definitely wasn't worried about himself, so someone ought to be.

By the time she got to the library, she was a little late and the one person she knew to always be at the library was already waiting by the door with an armful of books. "Good morning, Joanna," she stated, waving her key apologetically before unlocking the door.

"Morning, Miss Farrell."

Miss Farrell never quite stuck, and Angie had pleaded multiple times with the people that passed through every day just to call her Angela, but the venture was dutifully ignored. It was probably for the best, being that it did distinguish her and with a job like hers, it helped to be noticeable. Also, being called "miss" as opposed to "missus" or some other title gave her name a kind of classy sound that she'd mostly heard in the books she'd read (and there have been a lot of those). She wasn't sure whether or no she could live up to it though, being that many of the women in her books that have gone by "miss" have been strong leading ladies. Angie never saw herself that way.

Anyway, the day started out slow, with Joanna wandering about the shelves looking for something she'd been looking for going on three years now. Angie got the feeling that there was a different reason that the girl stayed at the library, but it wasn't any of her business. She chose to all but ignore the people that came and went until they came up to her. She didn't like being social (which is one of the reasons that she's still pissed off at Jonathan and Rick).

Speak of the devil… "Hey, Ange," Jonathan said quietly as he walked over to her desk.

She wasn't technically allowed to completely ignore his existence—he was lucky that he job called for at least a little human contact—so she chose the next best thing. "Hello, sir, how can I help you?" shun him with unfamiliarity.

Jonathan was one of those good-looking guys who knew it and used it to his advantage whenever he could. His skin was a delightful tan that he kept maintenance on by periodical trips to the West Coast (LA, baby!)—under the pretense of visiting relatives. The blond hair on his head was almost always sculpted just perfectly with enough hair gel to hold two angry elephants together. Currently, though, the pretty, slightly boyish, features of his face were twisted into a practiced pout. "Oh, c'mon…don't be like that."

"I'm sure that I don't know what you're talking about." She pretended to busy herself with filing.

"Look, I'm sorry, alright? I felt like such an asshole when you stormed out, but when I tried to go after you, I couldn't find you." He sighed when she shook her head, not looking at him at all. "I know I could have gone to your apartment, but did you really want me to?"

Suddenly, Angie tensed, thinking of what might have happened if Jonathan had come to her apartment and found her not alone. "No," she said too quickly, "I made it clear when I gave you my address that if you ever come over and it's not an emergency then I'll move to Barbabos…maybe I'll get a tan." The only reason she mentioned it and looked down at her pale skin was because she was trying to focus on not forgiving him—he didn't deserve it.

"It _was_ an emergency, though! Jesus, I of all people know how much you hate being touched like that. I'm sorry, I _really_ am." When she turned away from him once more, he leaned over the desk to try and capture her gaze again. "What do I have to do to make you believe me?"

"I do believe you, that's not the problem." Her voice remained ruthlessly calm. "I'm not even all that mad at _you_ so much as I'm just upset. First of all, _RICK_ was the one who thought it would be funny to put his hand in my shirt. I know that I was the one who ran out, but that still doesn't mean I liked walking over a bunch of dead bodies by the docks. And on top of that, I didn't sleep well last night, so seeing you're ugly mug this early in the morning isn't my idea of a good time."

He winced at that, but was aware that he had no right to complain. "You passed the rumble, then?" he asked flatly, trying to avoid further harsh words from his friend, "I heard one of the bodies went missing from the scene."

Opening a drawer for no other reason that the hide the fact that she almost fell out of her seat at that comment, Angie raised her eyebrows. "Really?"  
"Yeah, get this, they think it was Marco Vindetti. You know that guy who just got out of prison like last week? They say he's either dead or out of the country by now, so no one's really looking for him. They searched his house, though, and found a shit load of heroin."

This caught Angela's attention. _The bastard was _still_ selling drugs? I'm going to kick his ass,_ she though venomously.


	4. Chapter 3: Clothes that Fit Jonathan

Nicholas: Interesting chapter...not what I usually write...maybe that's because somehow, naughty adult videos inspired me to continue writing...anywho...

* * *

Looking out the window from the living room of Angie's apartment, one can see straight down to the alleyway, right on the edge of a busy boulevard. It was easy to catch a glimpse of the cars as they passed at about ten a minute. A lazy, fat tabby cat wandered about, belly scraping on the concrete. The sun was finally peeking out from behind the building across the way and casting industrial shadows over the pavement. Marco glared with a sour expression at everything on the outside, mostly angry that he wasn't out there. He'd just got done with _three years_ of being kept inside…_I thought I was done!_

Sitting still made him fidgety, knees bouncing, hands wringing, teeth clenching harshly. If he had finger nails he'd be contemplating clawing his own eyes out just as something to do other than _sit_ and _wait_. Hours tick by so slowly when one has nothing—and that does mean _nothing_—to do except breath and blink. This was worse than prison, even despite some of the horrible things other inmates did to him during his sentence. This was being starved and then told not to drool when a steak is dangled in front of his face. Glaring down at his wounded leg, stuck the pad of his thumb against the scab and pressed down until it stung so bad his eyes watered. "Stupid shit," he muttered accusingly at the gruesome red that seeped up once more.

_Angie will probably be pissed if I get blood on her cushion_… That thought alone was enough to make him want to just let himself bleed out on the couch. Fortunately, he didn't feel all that masochistic today.

Wiping up the drizzle of liquid that oozed up from the fissure in his thigh, he decided to occupy himself by watching as it dried to a brown crust on his hand. He deeply regretted this wound of his and the outcome of the fight with Leon last night. Even if he tried, he couldn't quite pinpoint the moment when he actually lost. Nothing made sense about this stupid situation. _When did I get sliced in the leg? When did I pass out? What the HELL?_ The last thing he remembered was Leon socking him in the face. Then he woke up to a pounding headache and a skirt by his head. He didn't know why he grabbed her, but it made sense at the time. Now he wished he hadn't.

"This is bullshit," he snarled at himself, "Stupid fucker." He leered at the long, gnarled slash in his flesh as though staring at it long enough would make it run away in fear. Deciding that falling on his face a few times was a hell of a lot more interesting than sitting there, he became determined to stand up and walk around if it killed him. In light of the situation, there was a possibility that it would.

Pressing his feet down into the off-white carpet, he winced as he tried to put weight on his leg. He glared down at his toes as if it were somehow their fault that he couldn't stand properly. He'd get up sooner or later, he promised himself that much.

* * *

"So if I let you dress me up at department stores and then buy the clothes, you'll forgive me?" Jonathan rubbed the back of his neck nervously as he followed Angie out of the library on her lunch break. For a while, he couldn't help but wonder what the heck had gotten into her when she started talking about all of this nonsense of buying men's clothes. It wasn't really his business to question what Angie did with her life, and he was on thin ice at the moment, so make inquiries was out of the equation.

"No, if you buy me clothes that fit you, I'll forgive you."

"Why?"

"Because I asked you to and you are my friend…and I don't have that much money at the moment, and these clothes are a necessity." Angie was suddenly grateful that he could not read her thoughts because they had gone straight to Marco sitting in his living room wearing nothing but a pair of briefs.

With a frustrated sigh, Jonathan lead the way to a cheap thrift store and threw the door open to let her in. "Why are they necessary? I don't want to go around wasting money on clothes. Who's going to wear them, you?"

"No…well yes…darn it, I don't know how to answer that! Just do me a favor, will you?"

They both were slightly on the angry side, but neither wanted to really go there or they'd end up screaming at each other. They went through the rows of clothes, Angela looking for something she thought Marco would wear and Jonathan looking for something that he would want. A few moments passed in silence so that he could get pants and she could get shirts. _Only a few outfits_, Angie reminded herself silently. _Don't want him staying forever…not that he'd want to_. Annoyance buzzed about her mind about all of the mysteries the man brought up. Sifting through hangers, she let her mind take it's own course for a moment.

So many things about Marco Vindetti were just as she would have expected—if she had indeed had the chance to expect this. He was harsh, quick-witted and had the cruelest smirk she'd ever had to deal with being directed at her. But still, he was a tangible human being. Straight out of stories and the world where everyone knew his name into her living room, he was like a demon. One doesn't know if he truly exists until she sees him, and of course that demonic quality that made her jumpy whenever she was in the same area as him. It was impossible for her to believe that he was really just another guy.

Her fingers slid idly over a satin dress shirt that somewhat resembled the remains of Marco's before she'd trashed it. He was indeed a man to wonder about, but mostly a man to fear. The librarian found herself almost terrified at the thought of going home to a drug-dealer who'd killed someone she had been quite familiar with. Then, like a tidal wave, strong-will and determination set in making her feel like she was made from iron. Last night, she'd decided that she would win. Last night, when things had been so odd and hectic that she hadn't taken much time to think them through. She had promised herself that she would not buckled under his spoiled-brat attitude.

With a new-found sense of security, she picked out that satin dress shirt and then a few other more plain ones. "Jonathan, what did you get?" she asked, looking over into the next aisle of clothes.

Jonathan lifted up few hangers that clung to pants. Just a few pairs of denim trousers along with a very interesting pair of black slacks. Angie raised an eyebrow. "What? They're comfortable. Got long pockets."

She interrupted before he could elaborate. "I really don't want to know. Just go buy these." Shoving the bundle of shirts into his arms, she made her way to the front of the store and out of the doors to get some fresh air. A smile had lit on her face as she looked up at the sunrays. She was confident now, that was all she needed.

* * *

"Ah fuck!" So far, Marco had managed to knock over a total of three chairs (the only ones that were at the kitchen table), a plastic pot of a fake plant, his cigarettes from the counter and a dish that he'd barely been able to catch before it shattered on the tile. For a bit, he had his feet under him and legs working fairly well, but then he stumbled and it was all the way to hell from there. This was all the convincing he needed to take a break. Luckily, he had his cigarettes. Reaching up awkwardly, he found his lighter and lit one up, not caring if Angie wouldn't be too happy about him smoking in her apartment.

He took a long drag and blew white smoke up to the ceiling, watching it curl and dance until it disappeared. _You get a different perspective from the floor,_ he begrudgingly mused to himself. Being someone that wasn't used to this type of weakness, it was all he could do not to be furious with himself. Looking up at the tile counters, periwinkle blue walls and down at the pinkish floor tiles, he scratched his head in contemplation of his next move.

If asked, he wouldn't admit that he wished Angie would hurry up and get her ass home. The last thing he'd give any evidence to is needing help, especially from a woman. Still, he knew she was useful in the sense that he was for the moment handicapped. On top of that, she had some twisted devotion to his safety, so that was a bonus in case he somehow desperately needed to manipulate her. Say it's fucked up to think that way, but he had better things he could be doing with his life than sitting on the floor of someone else's kitchen waiting for them to come to his "unneeded" rescue. Propping his foot up on the cupboard in front of him, he finished his cigarette in another three long, drawn out drags that let his mind go numb if even just for a few seconds. "Damn girl," he muttered glumly.

After licking his palm, he pressed the lit end of his cigarette against the wet skin to put it out. A circle of hot, reddish flesh remained and he stared at it dumbly. Now that the quickened heart rate and racing thoughts of his thrilling adventure of meeting the floor a few moments ago had faded, he found himself to again be bored out of his mind.

The after noon passed bye with him idly twiddling his thumbs and assessing the damage that Angie would no doubt be furious for. One of the chairs had a broken leg and that fake plant was probably going to suffer a few cracks in the pot. He picked up the dish he'd caught and noticed that it remained flawless. A smirk lit on his face as he looked at the shiny, white plate and he felt the need to be particularly evil. He tossed the thing across the kitchen and it crashed to the floor with a loud bang and a shatter. Shards of white glass flew everywhere, and his eyes went alight with mischief.

It seemed like only a few moments after that, he could distinctly hear the sound of rushing footsteps in the hallway outside of the apartment. _Three…two…one_, he counted down in his mind. The front door flew open and there was a rustle of a plastic bag and then loud, wheezing pants. "Marco!" that was definitely Angie, but he didn't even try to respond. "What was that crash?"

Straightening his legs, he leaned back against the counter behind him and waited for her to appear from the other room. "I fell," he stated flatly.

Her entire body went rigid, earrings still waving slightly at her sudden stop. Wide eyes scanned the mayhem and her arms suddenly dropped the two big plastic bags she was carrying. "What did you do?" she squeaked quietly. Carefully, she stepped over him and her feet crunched over pieces of broken plate. Her first instinct was to shout at him because for some reason she just _knew_ he'd done all of this on purpose, but then she turned and glared at him. Both of his arms were bruised darker than they'd been before, as though he'd bumped into something or…fallen.

As she made a desperate attempt at sighing away her stress, she knelt down beside him and picked up his hand. "You burnt yourself," she observed, trying to keep her voice calm.

"Couldn't find an ash tray." He offered her the cigarette butt, which she took and disposed of. "Wanna help me up, or do I get to sit here all day?"

Angie's face went slightly sour at his rudeness. She stared down at him, wondering how someone who at the moment looked this pitiful could possibly be such a jerk. "You can wait for me to clean up this mess," she told him, leaving no room for argument. Suddenly, she smiled at him. "And then you can get dressed. I bought you clothes."

Eyebrows creased in confusion, Marco kept on watching her even as she looked away to pick up the pieces of glass to throw away. Women never cease to amaze and annoy him. Either she was a damn good actor, or she really was unfazed by all of this, in which case Marco would just have to try harder.


	5. Chapter 4: Did You Scratch the Names Off

Nicholas: Here you are, loves. Marco had depth. I bet you didn't know it, but I did! Hah! I know something you don't know!!!

* * *

As Marco was dressing himself in a black T-shirt and a pair of dark jeans, he found himself wondering just how Angie had gotten his sizes right for them to fit this well. Less importantly, he considered asking how much she paid, but that might give her the idea that he planned to pay her back, so he strayed from that venture. He kept his mouth firmly shut and tugged, stretched and tested the material as much as his limited movement range would allow. The pants were obviously worn in already and the shirt smelled faintly of pickle juice, so these couldn't have been very expensive. Somebody went thrift store shopping.

He looked up quickly when Ange came back into the room, but didn't speak to her. He noticed that she'd changed clothes form a nice-casual work suit to what looked like an exercising outfit. She walked straight past his gaze into the kitchen and he immediately looked away the moment he noticed that she was wearing all black.

There was a familiar plastic rustling from the kitchen counter and without seeing it, he could tell that she was going through the stuff in the shopping bags. "I'm going for a walk and I want you to come with me," she told him, extracting a pair of black sneakers and a 3-pack of socks. "In light of recent events, I don't feel comfortable leaving you alone in my apartment. Before you give me that look: I think I can borrow a crutch from the people upstairs. They're son just healed a broken leg. So you'll be fine walking, and if not…we can always come back."

With a scoff, he met her eyes—she had come over to the couch to give him the shoes and socks. It was only after that that she realized he couldn't put them on his right foot. "Somebody die, or something? You're in all black." Marco's voice sounded less unpleasant than she had expected.

"Yes," she replied simply, "but I'm not going to Leon's funeral." Silence followed during which she knelt down and ripped open the package to take out a pair of socks. Taking hold of the foot of his bad leg, she slid the sock over his toes. She did her best to keep her head low and avoid his eyes.

"What did you say?" His voice was dangerously low and his hands had gripped the edge of the cushion in apprehsion.

"Leon is dead, Marco. He was shot three times in the chest on his doorstep. As I hear it, his Ma nearly had a heart attack." Angela's voice remained low and level—feeling awkward that she was giving this news to the man who'd just the other day tried to kill the recently deceased—but Marco noticed the nervous trembling in her hands while she tied the laces of his shoe. "Father Alfie is having the service as soon as possible so that Leon's brother, Bobby, can go before he leaves Brooklyn with his new girl." Just to keep herself busy, she worked at dressing his other foot as well.

For a moment, the only reaction that Marco could muster was to reach up and rub down the hairs on the back of his neck that had stood at attention at this revelation. The chill almost make him shiver, but he stubbornly forced back that urge. That this was suddenly the reality—Leon's death—filled the man with ambivalent emotions that succeeded in driving him almost mad. "Mother fucker," he muttered loathingly; all of his muscles seemed to twitch in turn.

Slightly startled, she looked up at him, finishing off the knot for his shoe. "What?" she asked, only remembering a few beats later that he hates repeating himself.

"Nothing," he snapped sharply. He leaned back into the cushion, arms crossed over his chest and body still as a statue. His mind wandered wildly against the choice of believing this and accepting it. _Leon can't be dead,_ he thought stubbornly, _How could someone like Leon die because of one of Fritzy's fucking peons._ There wasn't a doubt in his mind that it was Fritzy. Only that cowardly bastard would bring a gun to a knife fight. "What's wrong?" Angie risked another question. Something _was_ definitely amiss with how silent he was being. He didn't even give a snide remark about her putting his shoes on for him. "I thought you wanted him dead. This should be good news for you, right?"

"You gonna get a crutch or something?" I was obvious that he was annoyed and more obvious that he didn't want to talk about it. Irritation oozed out of every pore of his body, freezing the air so much that she shivered in icy fear. This felt worse than that heart-stopping glare he would give her.

Clearing her throat awkwardly, she stood. "Yes, I'll be right back." She left in flurry of discomfort.

As soon as the front door to the apartment closed, Marco lost it. He couldn't find a way to express his fury. He hit himself repeatedly on the head, yanked at his hair, slammed his fist over and over again into the couch, and even picked up the closest pillow to him and launched it across the room hoping it would hit and knock something breakable to the ground. Nothing helped and he quickly found himself leaning his head in his hands, fingers locked tightly and unforgiving-ly in his the locks of ebony on his scalp. Every inch of his body quaked in some twisted, metamorphic cross between rage and despair. Not an ounce of joy graced his mind at the thought of his arch nemesis lying cold and lifeless in a coffin. How fucking _dare_ the bastard get offed like that?

After all of that, three years with nothing better to do in hell than plot how wonderful revenge would be and it had to fucking end like _this_. What the hell was wrong with the world? Even after how hard Marco tried to give this fucked-up-fairytale of theirs an honorable ending, it all just came screeching to a halt like _this_. Leon didn't deserve a cheap-ass, trigged-happy, single-minded pride to do that to him. Leon didn't deserve a surprise attack like that.

His palms dug harshly into against his forehead as his body tensed tight as a bowstring ready to snap. _Not fair, not fair_. the voice in his head sounded like a spoiled, snot-nosed child. Murder wasn't something that made Marco nervous. Hell, his father had killed his mother in front of him at twelve-years-old; he was well exposed to this. Even at that age, he'd retained a cool, apathetic composure. Now shouldn't have been any different, but that didn't change the fact that it was. It didn't stop the violent hurricane of nauseating fury that stormed through his entire being. His heart was beating so hard that it hurt. His whole body started to ache and he started to add anger with himself to this pot of malcontent that was his gut. Unexpectedly, his eyes felt like he'd been stabbed in the lacrimal. A small, thin stroke of moisture dripped out and slid down his wrist. He swore to himself that he would never show this to anyone. Before God Himself saw him like this, he'd kill himself and play cards with Satan.

* * *

They walked together down the street, Marco moving exceedingly awkwardly with a crutch under his arm helping keep his weight on his good leg. She kept her distance, making sure not to offer help unless by some off chance he asked for it. After a few blocks, he seemed to get comfortable with the trial of hobbling along on one leg and a stick. Angie tried not to watch, but after giving up on walking ahead of him from how many times he sped up to catch her, she found it difficult to keep her eyes forward. It was obviously uncomfortable to step on that leg at all, even with the crutch, but he was a stubborn ass and didn't complain. Must have been a blessing in disguise. He seemed like the kind to whine just to be annoying.

"Where are we going?" he asked quietly, the slightest evidence of strain in his voice.

At first, she wasn't sure if he'd said something. She was so focused on both him and their destination that she wasn't paying attention. When his voice caught her ear, she looked up and consequently tripped over the sidewalk. She ignored his blatant snicker. "The cemetery." After recovery, she continued walking, barely aware that he had slowed down.

"I thought you weren't going to Leon's…funeral." That word was increasingly awkward whatever way he used it.

"I'm not. Sure, I knew the guy and more than a few times I talked with him, but I don't want to go to see him put in the ground. I mean, what's the point? I'll just take up space where his many family members and friends belong. It's not my business that he's dead at all. Besides, if I'm dragging you along, I think it'd start a riot if Marco Vindetti randomly came back from the dead to attend the funeral of the man he hates."

_I don't hate him_, he argued silently. The thought was stupid to bring up since he was certain she wouldn't understand. This was something in his mind that _he_ would deal with by himself. "So why are we going?"

"To visit an older grave."

"…who?" God, it was hell getting _any_ useful answer out of this woman.

Apparently he'd forgotten that he didn't want to be walking behind her because he was staring at her back again. _Fuck it_, he thought dismally. Trying to compete with her was hell on his leg right now, so he'd save it for later. Instead, he watched the change in her pace from contemplating steps to a more determined, brisk speed. "My mother," she stated.

"Hm…"

"What?" She glanced over her shoulder at that thoughtful hum of his. "Something you'd like to say?"

_Watch your fucking tone or I'll knock your head in with this fucking crutch._ He ignored the comment as it tugged his tongue, nagging him to just say it. Angie just had such a rude mouth sometimes that he was a bit threatened by it. He preferred to be uncouth, boorish type of person. "You seem like an orphan," he commented, "You're too unconnected with the things around you to have a family."

"I am an orphan."

The grass always seemed damp and grey at the cemetery. It made for a perfect frame to the stone teeth that jutted up from the jaw of death. A cool breeze lapped away at the lawn and combed the trees. Angie's hair struggled in the collection of bobby pins that held it up and a few strands strayed loose to hold the sides of her face as she looked down at her respective marker. It said "Ruby Majestic b. 1902 d. 1948, RIP."

"Adopted mother?" Marco asked quietly. Even he felt the solemn power of this hallowed place that he gave a somber respect to the dead. "And this was your adopted father?" He pointed to the other half of the stone that read "Jonathan Michael Majestic b. 1893."

"Yeah, he's not dead yet, but he reserved the plot next to hers just to be prepared."

With a wry smirk, Marco noted that she said "yet" as though she not only expected but awaited the man's eminent death. He made no other comment on that, however. He was too busy wondering what ways he could probably get into her head. She obviously had some sort of deep feelings for Mrs. Majestic or she wouldn't have come visit her grave. "How did she die, then?" he asked casually.

"Aneurysm." Angie began to sound as though she was having a hard time breathing, just with that one word. The cool was being forced in an out of tight lungs by the mechanical up and down movement of her ribs, not her free will at all. "At the base of her neck…it burst one night and I got to sit with her while she died."

"That sucks," he commented.

Angie didn't bother to look at him. _Like he cares_, she thought ironically, _I save his ass from prison and he has to be a prick, doesn't he?_ With a sigh, she tried to control her breathing. At the moment, she was thinking about Ruby and how nice the woman had been to her for the better part of her fucked up childhood. There was so many good times to look back on, which just made it worse for her try to get over the fact that she was gone. Every time she visited this site, she cried, but that was not going to happen because of Marco's asshole nature. "She was a great woman," she stated with a smile, "strong and wise. I like to think that she made me that way."

"Wise-ass is more like it," Marco insisted. He didn't like that. She turned it into something to be happy about. _What the fuck?_ Death wasn't something to be happy about. It occurred to him that maybe she was just faking it to piss him off, so he went with that. "Did she teach you to be a persistent head-case as well?"

Then, she faced him. She remembered that she wasn't going to give in to his bullshit and reminded herself of that determination she'd felt in the thrift shop. "I doubt you'd understand. I wouldn't believe it if you tried to tell me that someone loved you…or even that you loved someone."

For the first time, his face wasn't harsh, or mean, or even cool. He was blatantly thoughtful, just for a moment. It was all she could do not to assume that she'd caught him off-guard, being that she knew it was impossible. At all possibility, he was calculating his next move, where to put his next chess piece to win. Then again, he was taking a long time about. Angie found herself staring at him during his hesitation, once more taking into consideration that he was a nice looking man and that it made him seem more like a prick. "Do you have any family members here?" she asked, just to break his trace.

Suddenly, he was limping across the grass like a specter risen from the soil to spook and haunt. It sent chills down her spine, even if the crutch slightly took away from the illusion. The point was that he looked like he fit in perfectly in the surroundings: a mourner among lost souls. Just the way he carefully avoided touching or coming into contact with any of the stones made her think that he was afraid. _No, I know better_, she thought firmly, _He'd scare his soul from the Grim Reaper if push came to shove._ Gathering her strength, she followed him.

For a while, he just wandered the tombstone, not even reading the endless names and dates and meaningless titles given to long-gone people. He knew where his feet were taking him, even though he hadn't been there in years now. It was a lonely corner of the property hidden by trees filled with markers that were so badly worn some were illegible. He didn't need to read them. Automatically, his body stopped at the end of the field in front of a stone that stood by itself, almost unnoticed among the others.

Being sure that she kept her distance, she peeked over his shoulder at the marker. "What does it say?" she asked carefully. The words had not only been worn, but they seemed like someone had carved large gashes through them to be sure that no one could ever read them again.

At first, he didn't reply. His eyes were locked firmly on the cold, gray granite. He didn't even shiver from the cold wearing just a T-shirt and jeans. Everything about him gave off the image of a statue or monument weathering away but trying to stay strong long enough to see the sun on last time. Then he looked over his shoulder at her and shattered the illusion with frozen eyes and a wry smile. "Maria and Mariangela Vindetti," he stated flatly. "I haven't been here in a while."

"Who…?"

"My mom and little sister. They died on the same day."

_So there is a heart under all that jackass, _Angie thought. She couldn't bring herself to smile. Half of this was a wonderful step to seeing what Marco really was, and the other was that he had been through tragedy in his life. She knew how that felt, but to be perfectly honest, she was amazed to see something less sour in his mood. "How did they die?"

He scoffed and lowered his gaze back to the stone. _Why the fuck do you need to know?_ He was about to ask that. What business was it of hers? She probably wanted him to open up and reveal that he was just like everyone else, that he had weakness. _Fuck that._ "That's none of your god damned concern," he snapped angrily. Adjusting to shift his weight off that damn crutch, he wondered how stupid he looked standing in front of an unreadable tombstone with a pouting, asinine woman behind him glaring a hole into his back.

"Did you scratch off the names?" "Shut up," he growled.

Angie stepped back a bit. He was scary right then. All of the sudden, he'd dropped what could have been vulnerability or depth to replace it with a stone cold barrier. "That's _my_ past. Fuck off!" With that, he turned and hobbled past her. It was hard for him to use that crutch, she saw that. When he just dropped it and continued walking, Angie began to get an idea of him. There was something in his nature that deserved pity or sympathy and for a moment, she gave that to him.

Then, she noticed how easy it was for him to balance and walk when he was damned determined to. _Scramble in a random direction when the past rears its ugly head, good job, boy._ Despite her sudden epiphany, she knew that it didn't make up for the fact that he was a douche and wouldn't change. So she called after him. "Where are you going, Marco?" When he didn't respond, she picked up the crutch and went after him, intent on beating him with the damned thing if her hurt himself. "Hey, I don't know where you're planning to go, genius. Every police officer in Brooklyn knows your face by now."

It hurt really badly, every step that he took adding more pressure on his wounded leg. He was too stubborn to wince at the pain, even though it was his own anal fury that made it so terrible. He found it increasingly uncomfortable to storm off with a bad leg, but he did it anyway just in spite of himself. Sometimes he was a fucking masochist, so self inflicted pain was hardly new to him. He ignored the pointlessness and the fact that he had no idea where he might be headed. Sure, he could go back to Philly Bates' house, but since his cousin was dead, he did not doubt that the Law didn't need a warrant to search. It was probably crawling with cops. It would be best to lay low for a while, so once again Angie was right. That fact alone made him more loathe to stay with her. He pulled his aching, limping leg along with him.

"You're going to hurt yourself," she shouted after him in warning.

Yeah, he probably was. It was her stupid idea to drag him along. _She must really hate me…_ he thought, _there is no other excuse…well, fuck her!_ And then he fell.

Angie smiled wryly. She saw it coming when he passed that mud puddle. Suddenly, his foot sank in a patch of soft dirt and his knees buckled. He ended up on his hands and knees. "Oh, for Pete's sake!" she snapped dismally. As quickly as she could without slipping on the moist grass, she hurried to him and jabbed him in the side with the end of the crutch. "You idiot! I got you this stupid thing for a reason. Stop being suicidal."

After he'd successfully cringed away from the blunt object assaulting his mid-section, he glared up at her, hatred oozing from his pupils. She overlooked that to grab his arm and help him get on his feet again. "Stop helping me!" he shoved her away. "Fucken stop it!"

It was hard not to hit him on the head. Maybe she could knock some sense into that think skill of his if she wacked him hard enough. Something told her that it was the right thing to do, but she would never hit a child, not matter how obstinate. _I hope God never curses me with an Italian son._ No self-respecting four-year-old girl was this incorrigible, but she had to keep reminding herself to get past that not matter what. There was a beating heart somewhere in his fucked up temperament. She'd rise to this silly, trivial challenge of his and come up fighting. "So, do you want to just sit there, then?" she asked calmly, taking a step back to give him enough room for his big head. "I can wait. I don't have to go back to work today."


	6. Chapter 5: You'll Tell Me

Nicholas: This chapter was hard to write. I kept thinking "poor Marco" and then showing becki and hearing her whine "poor Marco" so yeah...poor Marco. The only reason besides mental agony that this was hard to write is that I didn't think it was characteristic for someone as cold as Marco to get choked up about his past, but that's the effect I wanted from the chapter...so you read it and see if I succeeded. Oh and for you mental sadists out there, there's more to come, don't worry.

* * *

_I sat down on the curb, knees up against my chest and my head propped up on my elbows. Things like this didn't happen in real life. I'd already gone through fifteen years of life knowing that. My hand was still bleeding a little bit, under the thin strip of fabric I'd torn off my shirt to bind it up. It stung like heck and as much as I didn't want to cry, my face was wet anyhow. I could hear the hustle and bustle of Brooklyn behind me, but I faced the street—the busy drive—to make sure there wasn't anyone who saw me like that. That was shameful, if anything else, and a cut hand wasn't worth wasting his time sitting on the side of a crowded avenue._

_"Yo, you alright?"_

_I looked up at Leon and he jumped up a bit. "You're crying," he commented, "You don't cry, now what's up? Your dad again?"_

_"Yep," I lifted my hand and showed it to him. I think that seeing it wrapped in blood soaked cloth like that made him go ape shit because I could tell he wasn't fucking mad at me. "Mom's pregnant…so you get the picture."_

_"I do not. You give me a chance with that bastard, I'll kick his ass!"_

_Coughing to hide my laugh, I looked back down at the street. "He said she 'got herself pregnant' like it was some curse or something…" He sat down next to me and I felt a hand on my shoulder. The warmth made me ache so I shook it off. "Doesn't it take two to fuck? I mean, it's not her fault…is it?"_

_"No, it ain't her fault," Leon snapped viciously, "Hell, she's having a baby, that's a good thing. We should celebrate." Taking my hand from me, he carefully unwound the bit of shirt I'd used. It looked worse than it had an hour ago and I could feel the rage radiating off of him. I shouldn't have found it funny, but I did. I wasn't crying anymore. "C'mon. Ma'll clean this up for you and then we'll get drinks. My treat."

* * *

_

"You're going to answer me, Marco," Angie insisted. She'd forced Marco down on the couch again and was kneeling in front of him, looking at his bare thigh and how that damn cut had decided to open up a bit and bleed out onto the jeans. "I buy you some new clothes so you don't have to prance around in your britches scaring holy hell out of the old lady that is across the alley..." She pointed out the curtain-less window to an apartment with lace drapes. "…I want to know what the heck was so horrible that you couldn't just calmly leave the cemetery with me. Speak!"

With his half-nakedness not being a problem in the least, Marco sat straight and dignified in front of what he deemed a PMSing psycho. "It ain't any of your fucking business," he said, "drop it!"

"No I won't drop it, not when it has to do with you messing up your leg again." Standing, she picked up his jeans from the couch and folded them to place on the table. "Besides, I never got an answer about that whole Leon thing. What is with you?"

"Get off my nuts, crazy woman!"

"I'm not amused." The unusual malice that graced her face at this moment did nothing but make the man smirk. _God, he's infuriating! He's getting a big laugh out of this, isn't he? Why doesn't he get that this is important to me? Why is it important to me?_ Pressing her palm against her head in frustration, she ignored the doubt in her mind. She wanted to be firm and she couldn't go rethinking herself, especially since that was what Marco wanted her to do.

For a split second, it seemed like he was almost to the point of conceding. She felt like she'd almost, _almost_, gotten to him. Just the way that shit-eating, manipulative grin sort of faded slightly gave her the fleeting illusion of success. Marco the Illusionist. He should go out on the road, make an honest trade out of it. Then, within the span of two and a half seconds, he glowered so darkly that she actually felt the need to use the restroom. "You may not wake up tomorrow morning," he threatened harshly.

"That's it, I've had it." She took one more step closer to him and lifted one knee. This she placed on his bad thigh and pushed down…_hard_. "I dare you to threaten my life just one more time."

His throat let out a high-pitched, border-embarrassing screech. Grabbing tight to her arm, he jerked his body in a defensive mechanism to get her off of him. It didn't work. Pain shot up through his limbs, almost completely engulfing him. Bright flares of light shot up over his eyelids that he'd closed in his surprise. There goes the theory that she was a pacifist push-over. "Fuck!" he shouted. "Get off!!!"

Angie let her eyes narrow venomously. "I didn't hear a please there, did I?"

He felt her kneecap grind down harder on his thigh. With an unforgiving groan, he threw his head back against the back of the couch and shoved her violently. Once again, she kept good balance and much to his dismay gained the leverage to make it hurt even worse. "Fuck you!" As much as it killed his pride, he squirmed indignantly against her to try to gain some sort of advantage without doing the worst. He really _didn't_ want to hit her. That would be a waste of that pretty face. "You're an insufferable bitch, you know that?"

"I don't want to hear your filthy language. I want just one, lousy answer!" Her eyes met his for the first time without that lingering uncertainty or fear. Strangely, he didn't have a murderous leer on his face either. This was the only thing that could possibly have made her step down. Genuine pain. So the statue feels. Easing off of the couch, she backed up a few steps. "Please."

"Please? Now you say please?" Fingers digging into his palms, he tried to control himself. If he tried what he wanted to try his leg would no doubt disagree and he'd be on the floor again. That wasn't really a place that he was comfortable being. "Well fuck you!!! You don't even know a goddamned thing about me, what makes you think you have a right to talk to me like that?"

"Why don't you enlighten me, then?"

With an accusatory scoff he crossed his arms in front of his chest and huffed childishly. He was deciding his words. What could he say that was anything important to her? "Fine," he said, "You wanna hear my whole life story, I'll humor you that."

"I just want my questions answered. It's ridiculous I have to almost break your leg to get two words out of you." She went back to tending his leg, but from all that pressure, it had pretty much stopped bleeding.

"I already told you that the grave is my mom and sister. I think that is enough of an answer to your question." He ran a hand through his hair, trying to calm his anger just a little bit to keep his voice from being so growly. "You wanna know why the names are scratched off? Or do you wanna know about Leon and me?"

"Both," Angie replied simply, "why don't you just start from the beginning?"

_She says that as though I should tell her my whole family history starting from Ancient Rome,_ he thought. _The beginning, huh? Easier said than done._ "They're the same story, I guess," he muttered. Now that it came down to telling, he didn't like it; he wasn't comfortable. "My dad was poor, drunk off his ass half the time and shouldn't have been allowed to have a family. I have absolutely no idea why that woman stayed with him. He did nothing but beat on her, and when I came along, he substituted her with me. Then again, I guess the only reason for that was me attracting his hand from her."

"That's horrible." Angie sat back, cross-legged, in front of him.

"And your family life was posy-perfect, is that what you're saying?"

Blinking a few times, she cocked her head to the side in confusion. "Uh…no. I just—"

"I don't want fucking pity, all right? You want me to talk, don't fucking interrupt me." He paused long enough to get the point across that he wanted an answer. The silence sounded like "do you understand me?" in the most demeaning tone. Almost obediently, she nodded, but he knew better. She just wanted him to keep talking. "Okay. I worked at John's pizzeria, I bet you know where that is, since I was old enough to. Someone had to earn money so we could eat.

"That's where I met Leon. He was kind of in the same boat as me, working to support his mother because of a father that was dead for all intents and purposes. The only difference was that he was also taking care of two little brothers and his father really was dead. He started taking care of me too. I'd show up at the shop with a cut lip or a bruised eye, he'd rant and rave about not looking after myself, but he'd always help me in the end. He became the only friend I ever really had." The responding silence pleasantly surprised him. "What? No gasp, no amazed shout? Try not to be alarmed."

"Well…sure, that's surprising. I thought you hated him, but this is the past we're talking about. Things change."

"You're so understanding of that…"

"Yep, now…"

"Right…" With a sigh, he continued. "Well…Like I said, he looked after my ass like an older brother, even though he was younger than me. When I showed up with my hand sliced open because that fat bastard found out Ma had 'gotten herself pregnant again,' he took me home with him and had his Ma bind it. She never really approved of me, but I guess she thought that she shouldn't discriminate when I needed help. Call it her intuition, but she really should have shunned me.

"Bobby and Ally-boy knew me pretty well too. Bobby is a wannabe mama's boy--kind of sucks when she liked Ally-boy more. Thing was, Alphonse clung to Leon and then to me as well. Everywhere we went, there was a tag-along and I never minded. He was a bright kid for the most part. Always trying to help or learn something. Leon kept telling him to go and make other friends, but the kid didn't listen. It was a nice adoptive family.

"The person formerly known as my father was after my mom almost every day since she conceived. He hardly ever got to her because I got in the way half the time or put myself in the way. It was better that way, no pregnant woman deserves to get hit because some bastard can't keep his dick in his pants. My sister was born on Friday the 13th a perfectly healthy child except that she cried every second of the next three days. They actually had to give her some meds to get to sleep before she suffocated on her own saliva. They say that an unborn child experiences everything that the mother does, so I think that's what happened. There was a big problem with the noise when she finally came home because that thing formerly known as dad couldn't yell over it. It became just another thing that I had to protect. Mom couldn't do it. The crying lessened, I guess, to the point where she only cried at night and early in the morning, but little slip ups from my mom could set of the siren.

"I was still working, harder than ever to try and get money for Mariangela's fat belly. She really was a big kid, but I loved her. In fact, I loved her more than I loved my mom. I held her at night and perfected a skill at keeping her quiet. Even when things got loud and violent, I could distract her and play with her. I was the only one who could do it. Just before my seventeenth birthday, I was at work for about ten hours that day to take the day off the next. It was probably the biggest mistake in my life.

"I got home late and heard the crying from the kitchen. Ma was probably comforting her and failing, but Angie was screaming. That thing called a father was shouting for the kid to shut up. I knew something was wrong. I ran into the kitchen and I remember that feeling of my heart beating so fast it felt like it wasn't working. I entered behind that fucker and stared in horror at the first gun I ever saw in my life. A shiny, nickel-plated pistol pointed into the corner of the room at my mommy…" His voice cracked slightly and he cut himself off, wide eyed as if he didn't expect that.

Angie felt her lungs let out the breath she hadn't meant to hold in. The last thing she'd expected when she asked him was something this scary. It was like telling ghost stories around the campfire, except for the underlying, terrifying fact that this was real. Books and motion pictures never made her feel much past excitement for the simple fact that they were all fiction. With it in her mind that he'd been through all this and that he wasn't lying—just by the look in his eyes—she reached up and put a hand on his knee.

"I said I don't want your fucking pity." He grabbed at her hand, but she moved it quick enough.

"This isn't pity, it's for comfort, dummy."

"Who says I need comfort?" For some reason, he tried to ignore the fact that he'd said something so childish. "The next thing I knew was a .45 caliber bullet went straight through Angie's head and into Ma's heart. She died with her dead child held in her arms while I sat in a corner of the living room, half-hoping he'd find me and shoot me too. Obviously, he didn't. He sent me to my room and locked me in for the next four days." Looking off to the side, staring at some distant object in the room, he scratched the back of his neck. "I didn't go back to work after that. I avoided Leon and his family at all costs, and most of all I found excuses to stay away from home sweet home…I don't want to talk any more."

With a few blinks of her eyes, Angela leaned back, away from him and considered what he just said. "But you said you'd answer my questions," she reminded calmly. "I still want to know what happened between you and Leon."

"Story time's over, kid. My head hurts."

"No it ain't," Angie snapped. Standing, she put a hand on his shoulder and shoved him back. Once again, she showed more strength than she probably should have and he glared uncertainly at her. "You have one more little bit to tell me."

"You like hearing my tortured, fucking, past don't you? Fucken sadist."

"Am I causing pain, then?" As she spoke, she kept her voice low, trying to match that threatening tone she'd heard him use. It had occurred to her that trying to cause him any sort of physical pain would either not work or just make him want to spite her. Maybe if she pressed in a different spot, she'd get a better reaction.

"Th'fuck is wrong with you? Why in God's name would it hurt?"

"If it doesn't then it shouldn't be so difficult, or head ache inducing to tell me about Leon." She reached up and poked him on the cheek, not even bothered by the fact that it looked like he was trying to keep from clawing her eyes out with blunt nails. "You owe me for the crap you pulled earlier. That dish was my grandmother's."

"You shouldn't have left it on the fucking counter, dipshit." A long, sharp finger jabbed into his jaw and he grabbed her wrist to pull her away. "Fine! I want dinner first, then I'll fucken talk…Jesus, it's like being a prisoner of war."


	7. Chapter 6: Get Out, You Pervert

Nicholas: No one is reviewing this story and it is making me sad. I'd threaten to stop writing, but I won't be able to back that up because there's too much I want to do with this. So here is my next chapter.

Regarding the "Part Two": In my Word Document, I don't have this separated in the chapters that coincide with these. So far, I've just now reached part two, and it happens to have started half way through this chapter. Awkward ain't it?

* * *

It went off like a bomb in his mind. Something trivial that shouldn't have mattered to him like it did. It invaded his thoughts and distracted him from a plate of spaghetti—the crappy, Americanized kind—that would probably make his mother turn in her grave if she knew he was eating this. However, he couldn't take his mind off of "that plate was my grandmother's." It didn't make sense, she was an orphan. From what he knew of orphans, there were no living relatives that could take her in, thus…no Grandma.

"Who did you say that plate was from?"

"Gramms," Angie replied simply.

Still, it perturbed him, and he knew that it shouldn't have. He didn't care, honestly, but damn it if he wasn't confused. Should he ask? Would she get all pissy and whiny about something long past, or some shit like that? Marco didn't want to deal with that. Yet, it still stood that _she_ owed _him_. "Hey, I'll told you my fucked up childhood," he stated, "you mind telling me something about yours?"

"I'll say 'I do mind' and you'll ask your question anyway."

"Pretty much. If you're an orphan, how do you have a Grandma?"

"I don't."

"Th'fuck—?"

She shushed him and poked at her spaghetti. In the chair, she didn't sit like a normal person would. Her legs were bent underneath her and her hand—the one not occupied with a fork—was under the table, picking at the old wood.

"Don't fucken 'shhh' me," he snapped harshly. From his place on the couch that he never moved from, he tossed his plate onto the table. Glaring, he went one: "I'm sick of you sifting through my fucken tragedy and I got no fucken thing to show for it. You're a fucken hypocrite, that's what you are." At this point in any argument, he would have been pacing angrily or walking over to her and smacking her for this shit she was putting him through. However, his bum leg was not in that position. For a moment, he felt how Philly must have felt when them Deuces dropped cinder blocks on his car.

"So what? You're a dickless bastard."

"What was that?"

"You heard me." Her eyes were narrow slits as she looked up at him. Suddenly, she seemed to have been anti-conversational. "Just shut up and eat."

"My mother made better spaghetti."

"You mother was a wop. I'm Brittish, so shoot me."

A flicker of threat flowed over the gleam in his eyes. "Shut the fuck up," he snapped viciously, teeth bared and throat growling behind every word. "Don't talk about her."

* * *

"_MA!!!"_

_I didn't know what I was hearing. Everything was just so fucked up that I didn't know up from down. I couldn't believe that things could go so completely under in just a few short months. How did I ruin my life this quick? Fuck…my life was condemned the day I was born._

_"MA!!!"_

_I knew what that was. A piercing siren through the rain and thunder made my spine quake in my body. I'd never heard something so frightening, so utterly penetrating as that anguished cry. God, my skin crawled over my bones and I had to stand. Jimmy Pockets had already left, that crazy bastard and I should too. I remember wanting to leave, needing to go out and see what was happening but I was terrified that I already knew. No one needed to see me like this: frantic and scared. I'd only embarrass myself._

_"MA!!!"_

_I had to get out. These walls sunk in on me, pressing me back across the floor towards the eminent exit of this terror. Damnit! I was the leader of the Vipers! I was one of the most feared men on Sunset Park and I was afraid of the thunder. This is ridiculous…Even thought I knew better. I wasn't afraid of thunder at all. I was afraid of facing what I may have done._

_Outside, rain plummeted and pounded the street and cars and buildings of Sunset Park. I could barely see anything in the deep dark of the night. Even from this spot where the eave hung over me, I felt the moisture sting in a clod burst over my hands and face. I was drowning with every delayed breath. Shrieking laughter seemed distant even though I knew damned well that it was Jimmy Pockets sitting beside me. This was like being glued to a wrecking ball as it slammed into solid, reinforced concrete. There Leon kneeled in the wet and rain with Mrs. Esther totally hysterical over young Alley-boy's dead body. Creepy._

_Suddenly, he was standing, glaring murderously at me. Utter fury and betrayed despair gleamed in his eyes just as well through the sheets of rain coming down between us. "I warned you, Marco," his sharp, echoing voice boomed in my mind. "I fucken warned you. I told you not to sell him drugs."_

_He had, hadn't he…_That didn't matter_ because I didn't sell him anything this time. I thought I was completely clear when I said to avoid this poor kid. Ear-splitting, uproarious laughing came from down at my side and I registered it as an interruption this time. Jimmy just couldn't shut up, the idiot. I found my anger an easy escape from fear. I kicked him off the steps._

_"You moron," I snapped, ignoring the mournful scene of the Esther family collecting their deceased. "Get the fuck out of here, you fucken junkie."

* * *

_

**Part Two**

It was getting to be August. The days weren't so long anymore and the nights were more drawn out. As time moved on, her meals and conversations with Marco felt less hostile—even if a little bit uncomfortable still. He never did go into detail about Leon and his life before prison. He didn't seem to go into detail on much about himself since that night after the cemetery. Angie stopped bugging him about it and noticed how much easier it was to be around him when he wasn't angry or annoyed. Every night seemed to get lengthier and lengthier and the contact more prolonged.

The urge to get him out of her house didn't go away, but it faded a little. Angela was even considering offering to let him stay here for the rest of the year as some sort of assurance that he'll be properly forgotten before he went out on his own again. However, he'd already pointed out that he'd made a mark so deep on this block that "no one'll forget me, never." That was probably the gloomiest thing he'd said to her off-topic, and she was having a hard time keeping that loathing of him in mind. Something about him kept her from kicking him out the day he could walk without the damn crutch.

She thought about all of this while she did the daily, trivial things that she did. While she was at work, she wondered the answer to the puzzle that he was. When she went grocery shopping, she noticed that she'd purposely become accustomed to wonder what he wanted for dinner. Before she went to sleep at night she remembered with ease that there was a man in her living room snoozing on her couch. If it were anyone else, Angie had the feeling that she would probably like having him around. Living alone has made her crave human contact, but Marco Vindetti…she wasn't sure this was what she wanted. In fact, she had a hunch that it wasn't, but she put up with him anyway.

_He's getting better_, she thought to herself in the shower one night. The water was warm enough to not be too hot and the steam that settled about her feet made her feel strange. She wanted to distract herself. _He hasn't tried to kill me yet and I thought I saw an actual smile on his face the other day._ Laughing, she realized that the measure of progress was depressing at most. Why did she take on this challenge?

She put her head under the water flow and let her hair get wet even though that tell-tale fog was still fluttering about the shower. It was unsettling; she didn't know what, but it was.

Suddenly there was a knock on the door behind her. The sharp snap of hard knuckles on wood made her start. She almost slipped and fell and died because of it, and nothing would have been more embarrassing than death by bathtub. "How long are you gonna be in there?" Marco called from outside. There was a sort of playful irritation in his tone. Playful was a stretch, however, because it was more like he was making fun of her for being so girly that she took too long in the shower.

"What do you want?" she called back, hiding her unsteady heart rate.

"I have to piss."

"You'll have to wait."

The door opened anyway and a low flow of air sneaked under the plastic curtain to shill her legs. No her heart was beating quickly for a different reason. Each limping footstep into the room made her cringe slightly father against the shower wall. "Get out!" she shouted harshly.

"Keep your pants on." She didn't need to point out his error because she heard him scoff in frustration. "Or whatever. It's not like I'm going to fuck you slow and hot against the tile wall, so calm down."

Warm-hot moisture didn't help that her throat went dry. Leaning her shoulder against the cool tile, she wrapped her arms around herself and followed his shadow behind the curtain until he'd crossed to the toilet. The seat clunked when he lifted it and Angie suddenly forgot any nice feelings she'd had towards him. Recovering from his statement, she shouted at him again. "Get the fuck OUT of here!"

"Feisty tonight, aren't you?" He was acting cool as a cucumber, but he had to know what he was doing to her just by being in there.

She was afraid, terrified actually. Dead bodies strewn about a boat yard in the middle of the night, no problem, she frolics through like it's a field of flowers. Marco intrudes in her bathroom when she happens to be _naked_ and she's ready to curl up in a corner and die.

"I made you curse again, tho', so I'm proud." As his zipper ripped down, she slid down the wall of the shower and sat there waiting impatiently for him to leave. The stream of warm water fell just in front of her and the steam surrounded her in the tub. "You still alive in there?"

She didn't answer. It was hard to ignore him with the sound of the toilet and his silhouette on the shower curtain. Just the thought of it sent chills over her skin. She hated this situation, that strange sigh when he began to relieve him, the stink that was and always will be _Marco_, and that exposed, vulnerable feeling that she hadn't had to experience since she was sixteen. "Get out." Her voice sounded and felt drained, barely anything under the liquid beating on the shower floor and in the toilet bowl.

The scent of cigarettes floated over the curtain when he looked over his shoulder. With a raised eyebrow, he blew smoke out of his nostrils and considered her. It was strange, that tone of voice. "Are you crying?" he asked gruffly.

"I'm trying to bathe in peace. Please go away."

"What the hell? It's not like you have anything I haven't seen before." He shook out the last bit of piss and zipped his pants back up. "Th'fuck are you crying for?"

"I'm not."

"And I'm Jesus Christ." The first thing she noticed was that he didn't wash his hands. Second, he didn't put the seat down. Thirdly, he didn't flush the toilet. So there was something of courtesy among his anal-retentive, asinine antics. "Whatever, I'm leaving, so you can finish playing with yourself or whatever the fuck you were doing."


	8. Chapter 7: Marco, You're Drunk

Nicholas: Hey guys...Wow, I'm late...I have no excuse, so please don't hit me with books! *hides* Anyway, there's a bit of Angie!angst with loads of Marco!angst in this chapter. So be forewarned that Marco does weird shit when he's angsty (and drunk, don't forget drunk).  


* * *

_What a jerk!_ It kind of pissed her off that she couldn't find the right word for how angry she was at him. Curse words were always an option, but her foster father cussed like a sailor, the Angie strayed away from that as best she could. Besides, she didn't want to stoop to Marco's level. She could be so much better than he was and she intended to. One thing was for sure: no matter what he did, she wouldn't give in; she wouldn't play war with him.

The thing was, she hadn't felt so violated in her own home in a long time. How dare he? What kind of ass do you have to be to walk in on a woman while she was showering? She could still feel the cool tingle that had crawled over her skin when he'd spoke through the steam and rush of warm water. He might as well have doused her in ice water or sprayed her with a garden hose, the effect would have been the same. To add to that, he attention was now officially severed from anything but Marco Vindetti and the fact that he was there in her house.

Angie thought of him, what he was doing right then and her jaw clenched, teeth ground in anger. Infuriated to the point of blindness, she struggled to dress herself in the bathroom. A desperate need to be covered and unexposed again lingered in her shaky hands and goose-pimpled skin, but it was almost completely overshadowed by silent disdain. He was probably acting the perfect image of an arrogant scumbag, sitting on her couch drinking a six pack of beer that _she'd _paid for. Nothing would set her off quicker than that in a normal situation, but this was anything but normal. _This is Marco, goddamned, Vindetti_, she thought with a shudder hidden by pulling an undershirt over her head.

As she took deep, calming breaths, she walked through the door to her bedroom and made a quick dash to sit at her vanity mirror. She didn't look in the mirror like a normal girl would. Things like that were saved for the morning when she needed to be decent for work. Instead, she looked through the numerous stacks of books in front of her. After a moment, she turned away, toward as short bookcase against the wall—one that happened to be next to another case just like it.

It didn't take long to find her favorite, newer novel by Kerouac. _The Town and the City_ hadn't quite been the most checked out at the library for the last few years, so Angie snagged it as soon as she could. As quick as a flash, she was in bed with the door shut, her bedside lamp on and this book open. Nothing could be more calming than reading to forget about that vulgar pig in her living room. "The town was Galloway," Kerouac said with a voice to lure a curious mind. She didn't get more than halfway through chapter six before Jack's lullaby put her to sleep.

* * *

Sometimes Marco hated sex. Just the whole, stupid idea of it got to him and nagged like that cut on the roof of your mouth that tasted like metal and drives you insane. Or, of course, the lingering erection after less than righteous thoughts flashed across his mind.

It had all started when he thought about what Angie could have been thinking about that made her sound so scared of him in the bathroom. God, she _cried_. Then, for some sick, twisted reason, he remembered that she was naked and imagined what water would look like slipping and sliding over her bare skin. It was about then that he had to get the hell out of there. Maybe three seconds after he was safely on the couch with a bottle of beer, sex came to mind and he got a hard-on as if he'd never had one before.

Staring dumbly at the bulge in the crotch of his jeans, he sipped his beer. The thought of pressing hard and fast into a tight, sexy woman had him chugging bubbly, golden liquid like there was no tomorrow. He considered jerking off, but didn't want to have to explain tell-tale stains on the couch to Angie come morning. _Shit…Angie and "come" should not be in the same sentence._ With a grunt, he finished off the bottle and frowned.

"Bitch," he muttered under his breath. It must have been a long while since he'd gotten any if _Angie_ was turning him on. "Fucking shit." It seemed his best bet was drinking it off. Then again… "I'm gonna need more than a six-pack to get rid of this."

Pushing himself up, he maneuvered his way to the table. His leg was still a little bit iffy, but it held him well enough. He set the empty bottle on down and leaned on the wooden surface. The more he tried to think of disgusting things to turn him off, the more he found that he couldn't take his mind off of fucking. Stomach clenching, crotch tightening, he groaned as quietly as he could manage. It felt like high school all over again—when he'd had a crush on Mrs. Neighbors, freshman year. He ditched English class to masturbate in the bathroom. The look Leon had given him when he came back was damn near hilarious.

The heat suddenly ebbed a tad bit. "Oh, that helped," he muttered, "Best thing you've done for me in years, Leon."

It didn't do much, but at least he could think clearly now. Unfortunately, the only other thought process on hand was Leon and that wasn't really something he wanted to linger on at the moment. That always led to thoughts of revenge and then remembering that he'd missed his chance. It was almost enough of a sulk trip to make him question existence and want to grab the nearest sharp object to plunge it through his hand. Wryly, it occurred to him that he was never a masochist before Leon.

He waked to the fridge—awkwardly balanced somewhere between his bad leg and his uncomfortably pulsing groin. Barely after he shut the door again, he popped off the top of another bottle with an opener that materialized out of "nowhere." It seemed like a good idea just to carry the damn thing around in his pocket. Taking a long drink, he absent-mindedly set the cap on the counter. After a sharp swallow, he inhaled deep breaths to replenish the oxygen supply to his brain.

As the effects of remembering Leon started to fade, the heat in his stomach did the same until it was just some uncomfortable, slightly painful sensation. He had to get off, some way or another. If not, he thought he might just go insane from the pressure. He took another short drink and set the bottle down with a slightly enlightened expression. There was always the bathroom.

* * *

He opened the bedroom door as quietly as possible and looked through the surprisingly lit room. Sure, there had been light under the door, but the lamp on the nightstand was brighter than he'd anticipated. In fact, it kind of hurt his eyes at first. Eyes squinted, he glanced in and quickly scanned the bed. All the time he'd been in there, he hadn't actually seen her in bed, or anything like that. A slow chill quivered through his body as he stepped inside. This was always the warmest place in the apartment.

Instead of the excepted "Fuck off, Marco!" all he heard was a quiet snore. She was asleep. With the light on and her window open, she's fallen asleep. That little chill he'd felt before melted away to violent annoyance at her stupidity. A barrage of different scenarios flittered about his mind from a burglary to catching cold. He wanted to think that she just deserved whatever would happen to her, but…

As he was finishing his business in the bathroom, he couldn't help that natural instinct he felt to be the "man of the house." It was all his damn father's fault for his twisted personality. One moment, he wanted to wring her scrawny neck. Then the next, he just remembered his childhood trauma. Every time he'd heard Mariangela cry like that, he just knew that there was something deep and terrible going on in her little head. Whatever she was thinking scared her so bad and not even Ma could deal with it. Maybe she just never wanted to.

_Stop it,_ he scolded himself silently. He hadn't even gotten out of the damn bathroom before he would _hear_ that screaming again. His arms ached with something like want. _No, not now_, he thought dismally, _don't start this again, Marco._ That buzz he'd gotten from the alcohol wasn't helping him distract himself. Pressing his forehead against the wooden door, he tensed against an onslaught of emotions. Marco Vindette didn't feel emotion, all of that just made him seem weak. Wanting to go back and fix the past—stop that bullet from tearing through his family—it was a fruitless venture. He had been cheated out of ever having a little sister, of ever holding her, beating up potential boyfriends, and he couldn't change that.

"Fuck it," he muttered, opening the door.

The urge was too great to ignore and it had him crossing the room to the window. Sure, she tended to be an idiot sometimes and more often than not, she was infuriating, but he remembered easily that she had helped him when he needed it. Even though he would never admit it aloud that he'd needed help, it was true. He slid the pane down and locked it tightly and then went to her bedside.

As he reached for the lamp, he couldn't help but notice the awkward angle she was laying in. That, if nothing else, brought his attention. _She's such a bookworm,_ he thought with good humor. This was a little more forgivable that just recklessly passing out. She was still clutching the hard-back cover in her pale, thin hand. Carefully, he loosened her grip and took the book from her. _The Town and the City_, by Jack Kerouac: it read. He tried not to smirk too ridiculously wide at her quiet, high-pitched whimper when he folded down the corner of the page that she was on and set the novel on the nightstand.

He couldn't explain his sudden urge to make her comfortable or that he was suddenly staring at her so deeply that he couldn't look away. What was with this sudden sentiment when only a short time before he was wishing sickness on her? The feeling made him a bit nervous, but he wouldn't believe that he hands were shaking. Abruptly, he was repulsed; he didn't want to touch her or see her or even inhale that floral shampoo scent that seemed to cling to her. Having all of that around him made his head swim a bit and he finally felt the buzz from the beer turn into something more intense.

A little voice in his head laughed at him and called him a dickless yuppie and fuck if it didn't sound like his father. _Great, now I'm losing my mind_, but even as he tried to keep his thoughts so sarcastic, that fear gripped him. His throat tightened and his heart sped up in a way that hadn't gone off since the day he turned eighteen. The fear was that he was not strong enough, not good enough to do_ anything_ right. It was stupid and irrational, but his dad had carved it so permanently in his mind that the scar burned a nasty shade of blue.

_Forget her_, said the proverbial devil, _let her get kinks in her neck in the morning. She deserves it._ Marco shook his head and rubbed his brow absently. This was just silly that he would be fighting with himself over something so stupid as moving her. Unfortunately, the truth that the previous statement left out was that he was debating _touching her_ in general. He wanted to hit her, then he wanted to just leave her alone and walk out of this damn apartment forever. Neither was an option because he was moving without thinking.

Pulling the blanket back just a little, he chased away the thought that she was wearing a too-tight, sleeveless shirt and shorts. With hands that genuinely tried to be gentle, he held Angie's upper body and worked the rest of her down the mattress a bit. She was so warm that for a moment, he didn't think he could stand it. Not in the way that it burned him, it was just that he was so done with the thought of heat and contact and _skin-on-skin_ for one night. As he laid her back down and went to rearrange the pillows, she voiced a startling, agonized whimper. He went stock still the moment her eyes shot open.

"Marco!?" Her voice bordered a screech. On reflex, she shoved him, trying with some desperate instinct to make him disappear.

Shock was one way to describe it. Marco wasn't quite sure what to do being that he hadn't banked on her waking up at all. That she was freaking out made him nervous, so much so that he couldn't leave. He wanted to just get the fuck out of there and let her deal with whatever was making her like this, but his legs wouldn't let him. She shoved him again and before he knew it, he was furious.

"Stop it," he snapped. Without a thought, he grabbed her wrist to stop her shoving him. It would be easy to make excuses and say that he didn't mean to be so rough, that he was just going through some traumatic episode that was her fault to begin with, but that would be a big, honking piece of BS. He wanted the power and the control over the situation. He'd been like this a long time.

"What are you doing!?" Angie took a strangled gasp of air and then the terror found her and she could do nothing but struggle. "Stop!"

"Shut up," Marco insisted heavily. Glaring at her with some unknown source of his anger, he pressed a hand down on her clavicle just where it met her neck. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Marco, you're drunk! Get out of here!"

And just like that, Marco honestly felt his heart stop and his fingers go cold. He wasn't even ten the first time he heard those words. It hadn't been him, of course. It was the only assertion his mother had shown toward his father. Like a whipped dog, Marco ran out of that room.


End file.
